The Queen of Hearts
by Rhoda Nightingale
Summary: Part 2 of 3 - sequel to 'How to Fall Apart Gracefully.' A nameless narrator helps the Joker lead Batman on a wild goose chase for the missing inmates of Arkham. Chapter Thirteen: A bomb and a Batman. COMPLETE: read the sequel, 'Porphyria.'
1. Prologue

"The Queen of Hearts"

Summary: We last left our narrator, alone but hopeful, in the halls of Arkham Asylum. The Joker has, in his own twisted way, revealed his feelings for her, but he hasn't said the "L" word yet. My narrator still doesn't have a name, but she will - just hang in there. Also, The Batman/Bruce Wayne - and his surrounding posse - gets a much bigger part to play from here on out. This story is told somewhat out of sequence - I'm following two separate timelines, about a month and a half apart. One follows what happens immediately following the narrator's stay at Arkham. The other starts with the beginning stages of a plan she's helping carry out for The Joker. That second one is where this prologue kicks off; I'm putting "Now" and "Then" tags on all the chapters, rather than fancy titles, to let everyone know exactly where we are. So - here goes!

_Prologue_

I had some harsh words with him about the dress. Subtlety was not one his stronger traits, but it happened to be a cherished virtue in me. Besides that, I was of the opinion that my standing out would be hazardous to our plan. The dress was beautiful of course, even more so on me – floor-length, wine-red satin, with a snug bodice and a plunging back criss-crossed with black lace; long black satin gloves to match, and a rope of freshwater pearls. I only just managed to talk him out of high-heels, insisting instead on soft slippers laced with ribbon. The effect of the assembled pieces, together with my alabaster complexion, blue eyes and long black hair, was stunning, but made me feel horribly exposed.

"Trust me," he said. "You can pull this off, little lady."

Trust him. . . The request was precarious at best. I'd once heard it said that he had a 'taste for the theatrical.' True enough, and it was one of things I loved best about him. But little comfort that would be if it got us both killed. It wasn't me I was worried about.

"But what if—" I started.

"Shh," he said, putting a finger to my lips. "I'll be a phone call away if you need me. Don't you worry about a thing."

The truth is he _wanted_ me to stand out. He wanted me in the spotlight, drawing all the attention, pulling the focus of the gala from its host to myself. I knew my assignment. I had thought it laughably easy, what he had asked of me. The dress changed everything.

I arrived at Wayne Manor at a quarter-past six in the evening, attired in the ridiculous ensemble, a gold-embossed invitation in my gloved hand. The event was in honor of the late Rachel Dawes, Bruce Wayne's childhood playmate, and some said his former sweetheart. It was the first event to be held at Wayne Manor since it had been rebuilt. I didn't know who had put the idea into Bruce's head that throwing a party would aid him in his grieving process, but I was certain that he hadn't come up with it on his own. In fact I would venture a guess that he had agreed to it with great reluctance and trepidation. My lover had ended her life. He had not laid a finger on her himself, but he had lit the fuse. I wished sometimes that I had known her. Anyone who could capture the heart and mind of the unfathomable Bruce Wayne must have been truly remarkable. I regretted never having the chance to see her mind.

The moment I crossed the threshold, I understood. The mansion was spectacularly adorned – polished crystal chandeliers, ice sculptures in the shapes of rare birds, crisp-coated waiters handing out champagne and bite-sized delicacies. But all that I'd expected. When I entered, all eyes fell on me. The dress, although dazzling, was not entirely appropriate for a black-tie affair such as this. I felt pinched disapproval, sour jealousy, and a waft of intense curiosity. But underneath all that, there was fear. The atmosphere was thick with it. It lay heavy on the festival air, stifling the gaiety and heightening senses. A few of them recognized me from the pictures on the television and in the newspapers. I knew the caption by heart: "Dangerous. Possible accomplice to The Joker. Do Not Approach." I understood completely. The tension was what he wanted. It caused confusion, panic, chaos.

Trust him? No, I did not. But I admitted with chagrin that he was almost always right.


	2. Chapter 1

AN: Thanks, you two! I'm glad you both liked the dress, haha. Ring: Yes, this is after Arkham, by about two months. So now we're going _back_ to Arkham (Then) so you can find out what happened to her there, and how she got out. There's a smallish cameo from The Scarecrow in here; he comes back later, but only in passing, so don't get too excited. Oh, and the guest list will be checked – don't worry.

1: Then.

Two months earlier. . .

It is a curious thing that I should regain my peace of mind in a madhouse. The repetition, the routine, the predictability were comforting. They were leery of letting me out of my room at first, but as I showed no signs of violence to myself or others, and as I showed no desire to escape, a few carefully monitored freedoms were returned to me. I was escorted to breakfast at precisely nine o'clock every morning, and sat alongside the better behaved patients in the mess hall. At ten, I spoke to a trained therapist for approximately thirty minutes, and as she hammered hopeless questions at me I listened to her thoughts, lazily following the pattern she constructed around my behavior to explain away my crimes. I found her cyclical reasoning dull and uninspired. At noon I was allowed into the courtyard to see the sky. There were a myriad of activities such as basketball, shuffleboard, tennis, and others. I chose to lie on one of the benches, eyes closed, and simply listen.

Sometimes, if I was very still, and the other patients were sufficiently distracted from their own troubles, I could hear _him_. The rattling, busy clockwork of his mind was instantly recognizable, and although I could not pick out which, if any, of his thoughts were focused on me, the sound, the feeling of his inner voice soothed me. When I found it, my heart jump-started, giving a little hiccough of delight, and then quieted like a sigh. I did not need to know what he was plotting. Only that he was still there.

The hours between one and five were spent in various courses of group therapy and meaningless diversions of cards and television. I spoke when spoken to, and answered questions honestly, but incompletely. Supper was at six. The evening news was a consistent entertainment: many of the criminals in my company had been famous, at least locally, and some were so vain that they hoped to catch themselves on the TV, if only in passing. The Scarecrow was ceaselessly distraught over his exclusion from the inner workings of the hospital. He gave unasked for diagnoses at mealtimes, and commandeered the conversation during our group sessions. His opinions were aggravating most of the time, but at the evening news, his scrambled insights to human behavior in the outside world never failed to make us smile.

Nighttime was difficult. The others grappled with demons in their dreams, and my unique gifts made their screams, both real and unvoiced, echo all the more thunderously along the bare walls. I could see their night terrors, their tortured pasts, and their foggy, uncertain futures. Sleep did not come easily, if it came at all.

It was eight months, two weeks, and four days before he came for me. Four o'clock in the morning, after the screams had died down, but before the sun rose. It began with a low rumbling deep in the floor. At first I thought it was an earthquake, but the resonance was all wrong. It was a man-made quaking. And then, I heard him. The ticking, the restlessness. I was sure of it.

I left my cot and ran to the door, peering through the narrow barred window down the hallway. I saw nothing. Suddenly a searing explosion ripped through the air, and I fell back, clapping both hands over my ears. Little pops sounded further off in the hall, each one coming closer. The last blew the hinges off my door; I had to duck to avoid being hit by the screws. The door, now black and charred at the edges, shuddered in its frame, and fell inward. When the smoke settled, a silhouette appeared in the doorway: the slightly hunched posture, the lank greenish hair, the trim, tailored suit in garish colors that would have looked foolish on anyone else.

"Honey, I'm home!" he called, stepping over the wreckage. "Sorry I'm late. Work ran over a smidge—couldn't be helped. I hope you didn't wait up for me."

I laughed, sprang to my feet and threw myself into his arms. He pressed me close, stroking my hair with a gloved hand, nestling his chin against my shoulder. And just like before, his mind quelled. I felt him relax and go still in my arms. After an all-too-brief eternity, he held me at arms length and took my face in his hands. His face seemed large in my eyes, it had been so long since I'd seen him. The crooked, painted grin thrilled me with the same fear-tainted awe that I'd felt when he'd first found me.

"Surprised to see me?" he asked.

"Not one bit," I said. Then I kissed him. He kissed me back and grabbed me so tight that my feet left the ground for a moment, and released me only when we'd both run out of breath.

"C'mon," he said, with a sinister twinkle in his eye. "Step lively, little lady – we've got a lot of ground to cover before dawn." He took my small white hand in his and led us away, over the night-shrouded rooftops of Gotham.


	3. Chapter 2

AN: Woohoo – new readers! That's always such fun for me. Although, new readers, if it's not already clear: This story is a sequel to one called "How To Fall Apart Gracefully," and is a direct continuation from that. So if you get confused at all, the answers are probably in there. To answer your questions: Marina: Yes, she can 'read minds,' but it's not quite that simple. There's a flashback coming up in chapter 5 that will explain more about what she can do. Devryn: Thanks – I hope you feel better soon! Ring: Yes, more reunion, but first we're going to time-swap again. That'll happen with every chapter until the two timelines catch up to each other. On that note, back to Wayne Manor!

2: Now.

The glittering crowd parted before me like water. Their apprehension was intoxicating; I swelled, powerful, ominous, larger in their minds than I was in their eyes. My target was at the top of a salmon-colored marble staircase, standing next to an ice sculpture surrounded by chilled hors d'oeuvres. He wore a simple black tuxedo, classic and sharp; dark hair slickly styled, back straight; one hand was in his pocket, and the other gestured with practiced sophistication as he chatted with his guests.

His conversing partner, a waif-like redhead in a strapless gown, eyed me over his shoulder and pursed her tiny pink mouth. He turned, and his handsome face darkened. He whispered something to the redhead; she pouted and shot me a jealous glare, then disappeared around the wide balcony. Bruce Wayne, the debonair aristocrat, the infamous playboy and secret vigilante protector of Gotham, came down two steps to meet me. Near-murderous rage flared up inside him, but he kept it inside, tamed it, and rearranged it into insulted pride. I smiled.

"What are you doing here?" he asked thickly. "How did you get inside?"

"You invited me." I handed him my invitation.

He snatched it from my hand, read the name, and gave a short, mirthless laugh. "You're Alexis Warwick?" he asked, equally impressed and irate.

"For now," I said. "Master Wayne, I'd like a word with you if I may. In private."

"You really think I'm going anywhere with you, in front of all these people? Even though you somehow managed to get past security with that invite, there's no way they won't recognize you. The police will be here in minutes."

"And when they arrive, I'll go quietly. I only need a moment of your time."

His threat was empty, and we both knew it. Police didn't worry me. Perhaps he'd been hoping that, in the mayhem of their arrival, he could disappear into his transformation and then remove me from the premises himself. My cool lack of concern troubled him. It meant there would be no mayhem.

He took my arm roughly above the elbow and steered me to an outdoor patio overlooking the little wood behind the house. I winced from the pain where he grabbed me, but that would pass. He needed to feel in control somehow; I wouldn't deny him that. Onlookers watched us curiously, but at a sharp nod from my companion, they dispersed without a word.

"All right," he said, releasing me. "Make this quick."

"First," I said, "let me say that I am sincerely sorry for your loss." His features tightened into a scowl and he turned away from me. "I have lost those I loved before, and I know too well how painful it can be."

"No," he muttered hoarsely. "This isn't something I'm interested in discussing with you. What do you want? Get to the point, please."

"I only wanted you to know that I bear you no ill will."

"Then what is this about?"

"Your mask." I sensed the sharpened focus of his mind, although it did not show on his face; he was listening. "I don't care for it, sir. It doesn't suit you."

"I don't know what you're talking about—"

"Not that mask," I said. "This one." I reached up and touched his face with a gloved finger; he shied away. "It's not you at all, Master Wayne."

He nodded slowly. "All right," he said. "So you're planning to expose me. He's tried that before, you know. It won't work."

"Expose you?" I laughed. "No, you don't understand at all. You're as thick now as you were when we first encountered each other. You see, I don't care for liars. This white-collar, civilized facade is more of a mask than the one you wear in the dead of night, the one you so fear losing. _That _is who you truly are. This," I gestured to the house, and the grounds, "is meaningless to you, isn't it? It's all for show."

"What exactly do you want?"

"At the moment? Nothing. But consider carefully what I've said tonight, Master Wayne. We know who you really are. You cannot keep this up forever. And for my part, I don't know why you would want to."

I turned from him then, and left the party. I slipped a generous donation into the glass box in which money was being collected for a new exhibition at the museum, in Rachel's memory. There were no police. There was no mayhem. And that, the absence of wanton violence, combined with my presence there, was sure to frighten The Bat more than anything.


	4. Chapter 3

AN: Thanks for the lovely reviews as always folks! I don't really have much to add on this one – it's mostly just fluff and nonsense. Enjoy! :)

3: Then.

I slept through the entire day after The Joker rescued me from bedlam. He didn't disturb me. When I woke again, it was dark out. I was in a tiny, but comfortable, hotel suite. It was simply furnished – a dresser here, a wardrobe there. The phone, I noticed, had been ripped from the wall, and television screen was cracked.

I didn't see him, but that didn't worry me. He was near. I got up and found my way to the bathroom. Then I began opening doors. Closet, ironing board . . . stairs. One didn't ordinarily find stairs in a hotel room. I went up. The stairs led me to the rooftop, and a chill breeze swept up my hair and the edge of the shapeless, linen nightgown I'd been given in the asylum. I shivered and crossed my arms over my chest.

My feet were bare. The slate floor was cold under them, but not penetrating. I walked to the very edge of the building and looked down: it was at least twenty stories up. Above the streetlights, and traffic noises, and people. It was quiet. The voices could not reach me as well here. Overhead, a few stars glittered behind the tentative blue-black of a sky just before dawn. I closed my eyes, and peace came to me again. My hands floated out and up, fingers spread, and I listened to the quiet.

"If you're going to jump, you better let me push you. I wouldn't want to break my promise."

I smiled, let my arms drop, and turned my head towards his voice. He wore a lime-green vest over a satin, periwinkle top, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and kelly-green pinstripe trousers. He sauntered toward me, arms crossed.

"Sorry I haven't been better company," I said. "I'm just so tired, I. . ."

He shrugged off my apology. "No surprises there. You were right, you know." I raised an eyebrow. "About love, and chaos."

I grinned wider, and turned fully towards him. "Oh?"

"It was a lot quieter with you gone," he continued, all the while moving toward me. "Easier to think, easier to see clearly. You could almost say 'predictable,' but you know that's not really fair with a guy like me." I chuckled. "Yep. Definitely less chaotic, without you around."

Only a few inches remained between us now. I reached out and took his hand. "I missed you too," I said.

Then he kissed me. Gently this time; something had changed inside him. And as the kiss deepened, I realized that he had stopped fighting me. The resistance to his feelings for me was gone, and in its place was something pure and real. I'd never felt such a thing before. At least not for myself. What was it he always used to tell us? "What doesn't kill you simply makes you stranger." The feeling _was_ strange, coming from him. And yet, he was also stronger. And I, foolish and self-righteous as I was, had assumed it would kill him.

He pulled the linen gown off over my head. I shivered as the cold rushed over my bare flesh, but he took me in his arms, and kissed me again. He laid me down, with the linen gown under us. It was a poor barrier against the hard ground, but his arms and lips were warm. How remarkably tender he was, how different, and yet. . . I gasped when he slid inside me, then shut my eyes and let the ecstasy wash over me. I drank it in, then reflected it back to him until he shuddered with the intensity of the feeling. I stripped him of his vest and shirt; he clutched me to his body and rolled over, pulling me on top of him. He kissed me over and over, murmuring half-formed words into my skin, piercing me delicately with nails and teeth. It was all I could do to keep pace with him. I lost count of the number of times I came. We made love until the sun rose over the rooftops.


	5. Chapter 4

AN: Thanks, you two! I'm glad you're okay with the fluff, heh. This next one is moving forward with the Joker's genius plan, listening in on Bruce and Co. at the party while they're plotting their next move. Another short one – and again, I'm not sure why the chapter lengths keep winding up so weird. Oh well. Enjoy!

4: Now.

I joined him at our hiding place an hour after I left the mansion. I was not followed or tracked. He didn't speak to me, but motioned me to his side, gesturing to the digital radio he had set up. He pushed a button and the sound grew louder. Beyond the crackle of static and the monotone hum of chattering party guests, two voices came through crisper, clearer:

_"I don't know,"_ said the first. _"She might just be trying to scare you."_

_"Is there a reason you're not tracking her down right this second?" _asked the second – clearly Bruce, but my paramour did not know that yet.

_"Is there a reason _you're _not? Anyway, don't worry – I started running a trace on her as soon as she walked in the door."_

"He's bluffing," said my companion.

"No," I said.

He raised his eyebrows inquisitively.

"He started a trace," I explained, "but he doesn't believe it's going to work."

He nodded. "Close enough."

_"You know what this means,"_ said the first voice. _"He broke into Arkham and got away scott-free. Do you know how many other cells were empty by the time he got through with that place? He's planning something big, and we need to be ready. She's just the beginning."_

The Joker chuckled. "What exactly did you tell him?" he asked me.

"Only that I didn't like his mask."

"Ah—he doesn't like it when you talk about his mask."

"And I called him a liar."

"Really?" He grinned, evidently impressed. "Well, that doesn't set him apart from either of us, little lady."

"He lies to himself. It's different."

"Hm. What does he think we're planning here?"

"He thinks we're setting a trap for him. He's determined to outwit you; he believes I'm just a pawn."

He laughed again, louder this time, and pulled me over onto his lap. "He doesn't know you very well, does he?"

No, not well at all.


	6. Chapter 5

AN: Thanks again, loyal readers! This is a slightly more interesting chapter (I hope): pretty short at a glance, but this is the definitive flashback sequence for my narratrice. I hope this explains her character a bit more—I know a few of you were having trouble figuring her out. Any other questions after this, just let me know. As for you kids lurking out there—you know who you are—don't be shy with that review button. Please, gimme some feedback! Feedback is love!

5: Then.

I had nightmares. Not every night, but many. They lessened in frequency in the days following my stay at the asylum, but they also became more vivid and gruesome. One in particular kept returning: I was in my old attic room, the hot, cramped hideaway of my first life, when my gifts had first presented themselves to me. My dream replayed the moment when the voices first crept up on me. It was slow at first. Just a whisper, a thought, a nebulous mirage that felt its way into my head unbidden. I shook it out. But it persisted. And then, there were more. They crawled over and into me like millions of invisible many-legged insects, invading my every sense until I was overwhelmed with strangeness. My flesh itched and creeped with the plethora of foreign entities overtaking me. I scratched at my arms, legs, and stomach until I drew blood. When that did not work, I clawed at my hair, pulling it out it clumps, hoping the pain would drive away the other sensations. It did not.

My family thought I was possessed by an evil spirit, and at the time, as I did not know what else to think, I believed them. A priest threw holy water on me and chanted at me in melodious tongues that I did not understand. The collected astonishment and horror of the small crowd as they watched the hopeless exorcism flowed through me like water, and sickened me. I sicked over the bed, and the priest, and then I began to cry. I was bound away like a madwoman to the nearest mental hospital – in those days, little more than a prison with doctors half as mad as their clientele – dismissed, and forgotten. I was utterly alone, and died of starvation and disease only weeks later.

The dream ended in different places, different nights. Sometimes it followed the entire span of my many lives. Sometimes it stopped after the day I'd first bloodied my sword; I had screamed for an hour, hoping to distract myself from the satisfaction I'd felt. Sometimes it stopped with my first episode in the attic room. But I always awoke with a jolt, as if I'd fallen from a great height, and my skin was filmed with a clammy sweat. I did not cry out in my sleep. I'd learned many years ago to silence my nighttime terrors. The Joker sat some distance away, staring at me. He never slept next to me. I wasn't sure he slept at all. I didn't say anything, but reached out for him, and he came to my side, and comforted me. Not with pretty words or distracting caresses. He only took my hand, pressed me to his chest, and waited. He understood somewhat the way my mind worked now. He went quiet around me. And that quiet seeped into me, calmed me, and made the terror fade into the background. It was not gone – we both knew that. But it shrank to a manageable size.

Funny, but I never had nightmares in the asylum. Perhaps because I slept so little. And I'd missed him terribly. I didn't realize how much until I could be near him again. My need for him disturbed me. I had long conditioned myself not to need anyone. It was both easier, and harder, to listen to my own thoughts around him. It _was_ more chaotic. I had meant the words when I'd first said them to him, but I hadn't realized before how true they were.


	7. Chapter 6

AN: Thanks as always, guys! To answer your question, Devryn: Yes, the 'nightmares' are actually flashbacks. They're real memories, and all those past lives really happened. Although now that you mention it, it could be fun to leave that part of the story ambiguous... I'll try to remember that next time. Anyway, we're back to 'now,' and another visit with Commissioner Gordon – enjoy!

6: Now.

"Commissioner Gordon."

His jaw went slack at the sight of me. "How did you get in here?"

"The front door." It was remarkable how easily people could be persuaded to look elsewhere, if one wanted them to.

Gordon's hand shot towards the call button on his phone to page security; I grabbed his wrist before he reached it. "I have some information for you," I said.

After a whirlwind of paperwork and phone calls, I was back in the interrogation room, this time of my own volition. Gordon sat down across from me, sighed heavily, and rubbed his forehead before he began. "Where is he?" he asked.

"I can't tell you that, Commissioner," I said. "He's always in motion. If I told you anything about his whereabouts, they would change the instant you began looking. You must know that by now."

Gordon nodded reluctantly. "Fine," he said. "But I want you to understand something, young lady: You are not here to waste my time. So if you don't get to the point quickly, I'm prepared to treat you as a hostile witness."

"I understand."

"And once you get through whatever you have to say, you're going back to Arkham where you belong."

I swallowed. "Arkham is not as secure as you imagine it to be, Commissioner."

"If you're talking about the break in—"

"I'm here because there has been a threat made against me. Something's happened that my . . . companion did not foresee. You see, he's gathered an army of sorts. A bevy of monsters from that hellish place that you call an 'asylum.' It was my job to tell him which of them would be the easiest to manipulate and control. I misjudged one of them rather badly, and. . ." I stopped and took a shuddering breath.

"Who is it?" asked Gordon, leaning over the little table between us.

"Harvey Dent. He feels that. . . Anger has festered in his heart for far too long, and he's chosen me as a victim."

"What's he planning to do?"

"I don't know. But I know that Harvey and the others are taking shelter in a derelict subway station ten miles southeast of here. I don't remember the address, but I can tell you how to reach it."

Gordon sat back in his chair, his brow furrowed with unease. "What about the Joker?"

I sighed. "I can deliver Harvey and the other—"

"What about the Joker?" He spoke slowly, emphasizing every syllable.

I shook my head. "No."

Gordon frowned. "You're really in love with him, aren't you?"

"I am."

After my inquisition I was taken to a solitary holding cell. I could hear Gordon talking with one of the detectives near the door. "Can we trust her?" the detective asked.

"I don't know," Gordon answered with a sigh. "She's hiding something, but she's telling the truth about Dent."

"Why is he after her? That doesn't make any sense."

"I can guess." He gave instructions to take a team down to the location I'd given, following my directions.

Of course it wouldn't work. It was possible that Harvey and a few other inmates from Arkham would be collected and deposited somewhere safely, but not all of them. The Joker had other plans for them.


	8. Chapter 7

AN: Eep—where'd all my readers go, eh? Thanks for the unyielding loyalty, WordNerd! Well, without further ado, here's the next part—this is where the title comes from.

7: Then.

"You know what you need?" He lounged in the driver's seat of the delivery truck we'd stolen, gesturing lazily with a pistol while we both waited for the little egg timer on the dashboard to reach zero. The car idled grouchily, like a slumbering wildcat. The Joker had put his seat back almost flat and crossed his ankles on top of the steering wheel.

"What do I need?" I asked him.

"A name."

"You know my name."

"No no no," he stammered impatiently, "not _that _name, something to actually _call_ you. A nickname, y'know, an alias."

It had been two weeks since he'd come for me. The authorities were becoming more anxious by the minute, as they had not discovered our whereabouts yet. So they had made the useless, desperate gesture of putting my picture under the heading 'Wanted' and asking the general populace to aid them in searching for me. My name was listed as 'Unknown.'

"They'll give you one whether you want them to or not," said The Joker. "Might as well make it something with a little _pizzazz,_ doncha think?"

I turned in my seat and propped my chin on my fist. "Something that will strike fear into the hearts of the wicked, then?"

He looked at me, and his dark eyes flashed. "_And_ the righteous," he said.

I grinned slowly. "Do you have something particular in mind?"

"I was thinking of 'The Queen of Hearts.'" He sat up and made a wide, sweeping motion with his gun-wielding hand, imitating the way I swung my sword. "_Off with their heads_!" he shrieked, and then he began to cackle.

I laughed at the gruesome image and grabbed his free hand. "I like it," I said.

His maniacal laughter waned and our eyes met. The painted mask went still, a lusty blaze ignited in his heart, and I knew he was about to kiss me. I reached for him, but then the egg timer went off, startling us both. He laughed weakly and tipped my chin up with a gloved fingertip. "Work, work, work," he said with mock wistfulness. "Let's pick this up later, shall we?" He kissed me quickly then righted his seat and gunned the engine. The shining blacktop disappeared underneath us like water.


	9. Chapter 8

AN: Wow—thanks for all the feedback, folks!! To answer a few questions: Devryn—you're right on both counts. The 'Queen of Hearts' thing refers to both the deck of cards, and the Alice In Wonderland idea. redmisery18—also right, although I'll get to Harvey's role in all this in more detail later. Greetings and thanks for the praise to new reader, OperaCountess—great to have you! Okay then, onward...

8: Now.

I would have much preferred a silent guardian, but as luck would have it, the man stationed to see to it that I did not leave my cell was a chatty type. I answered him in flat monosyllables, but he was not discouraged. His mind was maddeningly obtuse—he was utterly incapable of seeing any point of view beyond his own. He was, in short, the complete opposite of myself.

"You don't _really _think he loves you, do you?" he sneered. He had directed this question at me already.

"Yes, I do," I answered.

"Be serious. He's a total whack job—he doesn't care about anyone but himself."

"Are you certain, sir, that you are describing another and not yourself?"

"Hey, you can't talk to me like that." He rattled his nightstick against the bars of my cell. "I'm the boss here, and you gotta show me some respect."

I eyed him coldly, gaining a thrill of satisfaction when his bravado trembled. "Respect is something earned," I told him. "Not something written on a badge or a uniform. I promise to give you exactly what you deserve."

"Yeah?" His voice was firm, but his eyes and spirit quailed, and he moved away from the bars. "Well I think I deserve to know your name. Huh? Let's have it."

I said nothing, but a half-smile twitched over my lips at his bull-headed persistence.

"C'mon, missy. What does The Joker call you—can you tell me that?"

I heard ticking; he was close. Time to move. "He calls me his 'little lady,'" I said. "And sometimes the Queen of Hearts." I looked the guard dead in the eye and rose to my feet. "And sometimes, he calls me by my _real_ name." The guard stepped back shakily, every trace of authority vanquished. "Would you like to hear it?"

"N-no, that's—"

"Come closer." I went to the edge of the cell and curled my fingers around the bars; he jumped, but not far. I had him. "Don't be frightened, Nicholas."

"H-how do you know m-my—"

"Shh," I whispered. "Come here." I stretched my hand out through the bars and beckoned him. He came. Seconds later, his spine was severed at the neck, and his keys were in my hand. I unlocked my cage and tiptoed out to the hallway, making my way to the guard's restroom in the next wing. From there I crawled into the air ducts in the ceiling and made my escape. The Joker was waiting for me.


	10. Chapter 9

AN: Thanks very much, Devryn! Okay—this next one has cameos from a couple of the other villains, namely Scarecrow and Harvey Dent. Enjoy!

9: Then.

"Why does she get to do all the work, huh?" whined the Scarecrow. "I'm a certified expert on human behavior – I can help. And I've known the Batman longer than any of you."

"No," said The Joker with a wearied sigh. "Your job, professor, is to direct attention elsewhere. 'Elsewhere' being right here, like I told you before. Now, if you'd like be in two places at once, I'd be happy to arrange that."

It was the same as the last time. His crowd of disposable helpers was focused on me, and boiling with hate. Most of them simply wanted me out of the way. They didn't approve of his unabashed favoritism of me, and wanted their fair share of the action during the job. They wanted me gone so that The Joker would focus on them instead of me.

Except for Harvey. He wanted me gone too, but for a different reason. He cornered me one day when The Joker had gone off 'window shopping' – his term for exploring an area he wanted to destroy and deciding how best to accomplish the feat. The Joker didn't keep a very close eye on me where the others were concerned. He knew as well as I did that they hated me, but he also knew I was capable of handling myself. It occurred to me that another in my position may have resented his not watching over me, but I appreciated his faith in my own strength. None of them frightened me.

So when Harvey literally backed me into a corner, I stood my ground, and listened. His fury was no greater than that of the others, but the motivation behind it was different. Revenge circled his thoughts, and I saw a name in his mind: Rachel Dawes. I crossed my arms and stared him down. I would not be the first to speak.

"So you're the one, huh?" he said, glaring at me with his good eye. "What's so special about you anyway?"

I said nothing. He pulled out his silver coin, with one side marred and blackened, and turned it over in his fingers. "I had someone special once too."

"Rachel Dawes," I said.

Both eyes locked and focused. "You know her?"

"I know there's an event planned in her memory soon. The Joker wants me to attend."

Harvey gave a short, mirthless laugh and clenched his fist around the coin. "Well, what a coincidence!" he said. "The man who murdered the love of my life is sending the love of _his _life to a party for her. That's just _hilarious_ isn't it?" He looked down at his coin again. The steel barrel of a gun glinted in his other hand. "I wonder what the chances are of that just happening."

"Harvey—" I started.

"_Shut up_!" The outburst echoed through the room and through my skull. I winced, but did not say anything further. "It all comes back to chance, every time," he continued. "What do you think the chances are that you actually mean anything to him?" The coin rolled over and over inside his palm. "When I lost Rachel, I lost half of myself, too. I wonder what would happen to The Joker if he lost you. Let's find out. That's fair, isn't it?" He tossed the coin high into the air.

I snatched it away before he could touch it. Then I reached out with my other hand and seized his throat, dug in at the side where his flesh had been burned away, and hooked my index finger around his larynx. His eyes popped grotesquely and he fell to his knees, wheezing and gurgling and clawing at my arm. His fingernails left painful scrapes along my skin, but I ignored them. "I want you to listen to me very carefully, Harvey," I said, keeping my voice low so he'd have to obey. "I am here because I choose to be. Not because I have a grudge to settle or a point to prove, but because I don't want to be parted from him. You, on the other hand, have deluded yourself into thinking that you can cause him as much pain as he's caused you. I see everything you've been plotting, and I will tell him all. You believe he made you this way, but we both know, don't we Harvey, that it was you yourself, and no one else, that allowed you to give in to this abomination? All you needed was an excuse. We're all liars here, Harvey. But you are the very worst kind, because you lie to yourself."

I released him. He fell back and drew a rattling gasp of a breath. "Do not threaten me again," I said. "If you have any sense of self-preservation left, you will leave this place before he finds a new way torture you. That's the only reason you're here. But I'm sure you knew that already." I opened my hand and the silver coin dropped to the ground with a sharp tinkling. Then I stalked away. The others, having gathered to watch the confrontation, gave me a wide berth as I passed.


	11. Chapter 10

AN: Thanks as always for the consistent praise, folks!! For some reason the site won't load my documents today; I dunno what's going on, but I'm trying something different to fix it. Hope this works! This next chapter casts a bit of doubt on . . . well, you'll see. Enjoy!

10: Now.

"Wait—there! Play that part back again." Bruce Wayne's voice was harsh and urgent.

I sat at a wrought iron bench, in the very center of the park at dusk, listening. I disliked doing things this way, prying into the minds of the oblivious men I was stalking from a distance. I had to stretch my abilities to their breaking point to gather the images that they watched on Bruce's security feed, and the pictures I received were rather muddled and unclear. I was much better at listening than watching. But I pieced together their conversation with the shapes in their minds as best I could, and realized what had happened:

Bruce and Lucius Fox, his most trusted counselor, were watching a videotape of our hideaway in the subway. It was a different place from the one I'd told them about before, and they were puzzling over the exact location. This meant that we had not, as we'd intended, destroyed all the existing security cameras in the subway. I would need to report that to The Joker.

But as they watched the feed, Bruce's thoughts shifted rather drastically. He'd seen something that grabbed his undivided attention, and sent him reeling in a direction quite different from simply finding our stakeout. I was the focal point.

Lucius replayed a portion of the tape, as Bruce had requested.

"There!" said Bruce. "Did you see that?"

"Oh my," said Lucius. "That _is_ interesting."

"He's listening to her. He actually _trusts_ her. I'm starting to think that he might actually. . ." He made an exasperated noise. "No—none of this makes any sense."

I realized then what they'd seen, and my nerves rattled: It was me, whispering in my sweetheart's ear, giving him advice. And he, in turn, taking it.

"Since when has The Joker ever made sense?" said Lucius with a glib chuckle.

"I know, but—"

"Well, maybe that's just the point, Mister Wayne. This is the last thing anyone would expect."

"No. As long as he has her, he has something to lose. It's not like him, Lucius. Why would he make himself vulnerable like that?"

"Maybe he isn't. Maybe it just . . . happened. In my experience, matters of the heart are usually inconvenient."

Bruce's thoughts spiraled inward, toward his own past, and I saw the name 'Rachel Dawes' again. "Yeah," he sighed. "They usually are." The name circled and circled, and I sensed a pattern not unlike the one I'd seen in Harvey. "I never should have let her go."

"You didn't," said Lucius. "She escaped. Made a pretty big mess, too."

"Not from the station, I mean before. At the party. I should've kept her there."

Footsteps, and a familiar ticking sound, interrupted my train of thought.

"Well?" he said, sitting down next to me.

"Our hiding place has been compromised," I said.

"Hm." His face was unreadable, as always, but his mind was calm.

"I think The Bat wants to speak to me again," I said.

"Is that bad?"

"They're beginning to believe me. About you. About . . . us."

He raised his eyebrows. "You're not actually surprised, are you? They like you, little lady. They can't get enough of you. They wanna believe they can 'fix' you, like a cat. That's why I chose you! I knew they'd start to show some kind of misguided sympathy for you eventually." He laughed.

I mustered a half-smile, but couldn't meet his eye. Lucius's words rang in my ears. Could he be right? Was I only important to The Joker because his affection for me "didn't make sense?" Was I only alive because he needed something to bargain with? I knew he cared for me – that much was beyond question. But why? Was any of this real, or was I only part of his most recent design to create chaos?


	12. Chapter 11

AN: Holy crap, it's been a while!! Hello new readers – glad to have you! And I am sorry for the delay – I've been updating this story on like three different sites and I COMPLETELY forgot that I hadn't done this one yet. I won't let that happen again, promise. And I will try not to leave it on such a cliffhanger. (The operative word here being 'try.') So, without further ado, here's the next update – the last of the 'fluff' for a while, so savor it.

11: Then.

All the pieces were in place. The Scarecrow and what was left of Harvey Dent were positioned in the subway, at the location I was instructed to give to Commissioner Gordon. The rest had been otherwise taken care of. They were alive, but scattered. The Joker had let them go, hoping they'd find ways to create a disturbance on their own. I had no doubt they would not disappoint him.

The Joker and I were in our hotel room, the one with the severed phone cord and the vandalized television. In two hours time, I would arrive at the mansion to deliver Bruce Wayne my message. I had not revealed The Bat's true identity. Only that I knew it, and would use that knowledge to intimidate him. The Joker was not pleased with my refusal to part with that particular secret.

"It's not my secret to tell," I argued. "Like your scars."

The Joker went rigid and his clockwork mind snapped into focus.

"I know the truth," I went on. "I won't tell him, or anyone, because it's not my place to."

"Well," he said. "Aren't you just full of surprises?"

I turned from him and went away to dress. When I emerged, he took my hand and led me to the bed, and sat down in front of me. He produced a slender paintbrush and a pot of liquid eye make-up – bright red – and held my chin in one hand. I giggled when the brush tickled my cheek.

"What's all this?" I asked.

"Nothing, just a little _pizzazz_," he said. "Are you nervous?"

"No."

"No? The Batman might be the one freak in this neighborhood who can actually do anything to stop you."

"I'm not afraid of him."

"What _are_ you afraid of? Anything?"

"Well. . . There is one thing."

He paused, and the brush hovered in midair.

"We are going to die one day," I said. "Both of us. But I'll come back, the way I always do. I mean that literally – I suppose you know that."

"Yeah, I know that."

"But the next time I come back, you won't be here."

He grinned and applied the brush to my face one last time. "Is that all?" he asked. "You just don't wanna come back without me?"

"Is that _all_? It's everything! I'll find a way to endure, but. . ." I shook my head. "It won't be easy."

He stared at me, his face so close it seemed huge, and then leaned in and kissed me. When he spoke again, his voice was just above a whisper. "If I told you right now," he said, "that I would never, ever hurt you, would you believe me?"

"No," I said.

He grinned. "What if I told you I'd never let anyone _else_ hurt you?"

"I believe you'd try."

His nose nudged mine; I could feel his breath against my lips. "And what if I said I was in love with you?"

I reached out and twisted a lock of his green-tinged hair around my finger. "Yes," I said. "That, I'd believe." Then we kissed again, long and deep.

"Be careful out there tonight," he said. "Don't let me break my promise."

As I left, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the glass of a windowpane. He'd painted two tiny hearts underneath my eyes, like crimson teardrops. The Queen of Hearts. That was my name now. I liked it.


	13. Chapter 12

AN: Thanks guys – glad you're still out there, in spite of my slow updating! I've never heard of Emilie Autumn, but I'll look her up now. So, this is the penultimate chapter: this is where the twist happens. I hope you all like it – enjoy!

12: Now.

I don't know exactly when it all started to go wrong. It was after I overheard Bruce and Lucius in the park, but before I made it to the riverbank that led to our underground hideaway. It was still dark. By this time, if The Joker's calculations were correct (and they nearly always were), The Bat would have surmised the location of the second subway stakeout whose existence they'd not known of before. Harvey and the Scarecrow would have been removed to Arkham again, along with roughly a half-dozen patients that The Joker had broken out along with me, but not the ones who had been set loose elsewhere in Gotham. The Joker's calculations were correct, but mine were not. I did not realize just how badly I'd been mistaken until it was too late.

Suddenly I heard a high-pitched, maniacal cackling – I sound I knew all too well – followed by a gunshot, and then silence. I held my breath and searched the rooftops, peering towards the sound of the gunshot. A slender silhouette, shrouded and indistinct in the darkness, bowed and crumpled against a slate roof four buildings away from where I stood. And at that moment, I realized what I'd just witnessed: the laughter, the gunshot, and then the silence. _I could not hear him_. "No," I said. I began to run.

Getting inside the building was easy. That struck me as odd, but I did not think of that. I didn't have time to. I tried the elevator, but it was jammed, so I ran up twenty-seven flights of stairs to the roof. There was nothing. I went back inside, searching, listening, worrying myself into a panic when I still could not hear the busy clockwork of his mind.

And then, I heard static. A small, bare room with a small black and white television. The door swung shut behind me and a heavy bolt clunked into place to lock it. A picture buzzed into focus on the screen. It was the subway, the one that Bruce and Lucius had found that very day. And in the very center of the camera, from an angled bird's eye view, were The Bat and The Joker. The battle was at an impasse; The Joker sprawled on the floor, grinning like Lear's Fool, an implacable, omniscient harlequin. The Bat stood over him, poised to strike another blow, but he hesitated, intent on hearing The Joker's next words.

"So you've met my little lady, have you?" The Joker asked, his voice rough and strained with pain.

"You had no right to involve her in this," said The Bat.

"I didn't," said The Joker. "She involved herself." He grunted and hoisted himself to a kneeling position. "She's a real beauty, isn't she? But she's not quite right in the head, y'know?" He spiraled a finger near his temple, to demonstrate. "She hears voices." Then he burst into laughter.

The Bat seized The Joker by the front of his vest and hauled him to his feet. "There's just one thing I want to know, honestly," said The Bat. "Do you love her?"

"Well that depends."

"On what?"

"Did you love Rachel?"

The Bat swung and hit The Joker squarely in the jaw, knocking him back to the ground and inducing a fresh stream of hideous giggles.

"I'm giving you the opportunity of a lifetime here!" said The Joker. "An eye for an eye. My sweetheart for yours. It was Harvey's idea. I stole it for the style points."

"Where is she?!"

"Oh, I can't tell you that – it'd spoil the surprise! I know Rachel's still a sore spot with you. Aren't you just a _little_ tempted?"

"I don't believe you – you're not actually going to let her die so that you can—"

"That's up to you, old friend. You have twenty minutes."

That was when I noticed the clock duct-taped on top of the television. It read 19:59:37, counting steadily downward. The video feed was live. That was why I couldn't hear him. He was alive. He just wasn't here. Which also meant that I could not tell which of the words he spoke were lies. All my breath left me as the revelation struck home, and I fell to my knees. He hadn't forgotten that security camera. He'd left it there intentionally. For me.

The video cut away abruptly and a different picture appeared on the screen: The Joker, sitting calmly in front of the camera, at the hotel room we'd been sharing since my departure from Arkham. "Hello, little lady," he said. "If you're watching this, that means you heroically tried to come to my rescue. Hooray!" He clapped and hollered. "Thanks a million, sweetness, but I don't think it'll do _you_ any good. See, here's the thing: I've been too dependent on you lately. Putting too much faith in one person is always a mistake, and I don't do that. You're great in a pinch, but that's just the problem. The Scarecrow was right. I _have _been letting you do all the work. It's not fair to the other cronies who want in on my little mind games. And mind games don't really work on you, do they?" He chuckled and folded his hands together. "Now, before you're blown into your next life, I want you to understand something: I meant every word. I'm a liar – I lie to everyone. But not to you. You know why? Because it's impossible for one thing, but mostly because you've never lied to me. Not once. I can tell the difference, too, sweetheart."

I glanced up at the clock: 16:28:42.

"If the Batman finds you before you blow up," he continued, "or if, by some miracle, you manage to escape on your own, don't come looking for me. I know this isn't exactly what you wanted when you told me you wanted my face to be the last thing you saw, but since you only told me half the truth about the Batman, I figured I could get away with only keeping half my promise. I'm sure you want to give me a piece of your mind right now, and I don't blame you, but that's not going to happen. I'm just going to sit tight and pretend that you don't exist. It'll be easy after a few weeks – maybe even days. And when I've forgotten all about you, maybe I'll start to feel like myself again. And I will forget about you, eventually. I'm good at lying to myself too."

Then his eyes went cold. "You may think you know the truth about my scars, but you don't. No one does, little lady, not even me. Sometimes I remember it one way, sometimes I remember something else, and sometimes I don't remember anything at all. So whatever you saw in my head has at least a ninety-eight percent chance of being wrong." He sighed dramatically. "Parting is such sweet sorrow that I should say goodnight until this tape runs out!" He giggled to himself. "I'm a little disappointed in you, to be honest. You of all people should have seen this coming." He blew the camera a kiss and wiggled his purple fingers in farewell. Then it was over.


	14. Chapter 13

AN: Oh wow – LOTS of reviews this time! Thanks! And just to clear up the confusion: That last chapter was not the _last_ chapter. "Penultimate" means "next to last." Meaning _this_ is actually the last one, for this story. Sorry for not being clearer! Thanks everyone for being so loyal with your reading and reviewing – I hope you've enjoyed Part 2 of this odd little saga I've put together. Onward!

13: Another Life.

Fear was not important. The clock would run down whether I panicked or not. I took a moment – only a moment – and let the flux of emotions run through me. There was frustration, bitterness, anger, betrayal. It was all my own. Such a strange gift he'd given me, the opportunity to hear no thoughts but my own, in my final breaths. And then I took another moment to decide whether I wanted to live or die. He had not kept his promise properly – that was obvious, whatever excuses he gave. I also could not hear him – he was too far away. Everything he'd said in the tape might prove false. I had to know the truth before I left him behind forever.

I shook my head. "I'm not finished here," I said. And then I stood up.

The clock read 9:42:35. I had no margin for error, but I had what I needed if I acted quickly. The door was out of the question, but the window was plausible. I took the television off of the little table on which it stood and flung the table through the glass. It shattered in an explosion of fractured light, catching stars and moonshine in glittering fragments, and fell to the ground outside. I thought of The Joker and his stained glass window, the beauty of destruction, and almost lost my nerve. Almost. I cut the palms of my hands on the edges of the windowpane, but the pain was bearable. I lowered myself carefully, going from window to window down the side of the building, not looking down, only feeling my way and keeping myself moving.

I reached solid ground in five minutes, and walked away. I did not know where to go, or what I would do when I got there. I let my feet guide me, and clung to the hope that my path would reveal itself to me before I missed it. And then I heard the beating of great wings in the sky, and the building behind me burst into flames. The Bat landed on the road opposite me and took off running toward the wreckage, yelling, "No!" in his distorted voice.

"I'm here, Bruce," I said.

He heard me, stopped, and came back. "You escaped?" he asked.

"How did you find me?" I asked, ignoring his question.

"Same way we found the subway. We put a trace on the video feed."

I nodded. It was fast work; impressive.

"Porphyria," he said.

The name shocked me like cold water. "What did you say?" I asked.

"That's your name, isn't it?" he continued, moving toward me. "You're not the only one who knows how to dig up secrets. It just takes a little more time and effort for the rest of us." A strange wash of compassion and hesitant distrust whirled through his mind. And a singular, unspoken thought: _I told you so_.

"Say it if you must," I said. "You did warn me."

"I didn't come here to gloat at you. I came here to save your life."

"Well, my life is saved, for now. Your debt is settled."

"I'm not just talking about the bomb."

I crossed my arms tight over my chest. The Bat moved closer, his great cape fluttering like black water in the warm breeze from the flames.

"There are at least thirty dangerous lunatics running around the city right now," he said. "The people that The Joker let loose from Arkham. If I'm going to round them all up safely, I think I'm going to need your help. You can hear them, can't you? You could find them if you wanted to."

"Please, don't—"

"I know you don't want to do this forever. I know because _I _don't want it either. But you were right. This is who I am." He reached over his head and pulled the mask away. His hair was damp and matted with sweat, and his handsome face was flushed with the heat. He looked almost comically fragile, and human. "I'm not asking you to change. I'm just asking you to use your powers for good instead of evil."

I laughed, and the sound caught me by surprise. He smiled, and I was struck again by the unabashed normalcy in his face.

"If I betray him. . ." I said. "Have you any idea what that would do to him?"

He sighed. "Porphyria, he tried to kill you."

"I know, but this isn't a decision I can come to lightly." But in my heart, the decision was already made. I loathed it, the certainty with which I let him go.

Bruce nodded slowly. "Fair enough. You can hide out at my place until you're ready. I've talked it over with my servant already."

A hollow ache surfaced deep in my chest. "Where is he?" I asked.

"He's alive," said Bruce. "That's all I can tell you right now."

I breathed deep; his compassion was catching. I nodded. "Okay," I said. And then I gave him my hand. "I am sorry about Rachel," I added. "I meant what I said."

His features tightened, and he quickly replaced the mask. "I know," he growled, the adopted voice returning. "I'm sorry if I hurt you before."

"Don't be. I'm glad you didn't hold yourself back for me."

He tucked an arm around my waist, pulling me to his side, and whisked me off into the night. The fire faded into insignificance behind us.


End file.
